


Hazy Hunter's Moon

by GhostlyVoid



Series: Moon Magic [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Autumn, Cooking, Hunter Dean, M/M, Raised Apart, Sam doing Magic, They Don't Know They're Brothers, Witch Sam, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:43:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26993863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostlyVoid/pseuds/GhostlyVoid
Summary: Sam saves a hunter who got attacked by a werewolf, knowing exactly what trouble he's inviting into his home. The hunter, Dean, is predictably less than thrilled owing his life to a witch.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: Moon Magic [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1987942
Comments: 36
Kudos: 432
Collections: Wincest Big Bang 2020





	Hazy Hunter's Moon

**Author's Note:**

> A version of this story has been sitting in my WIPs for years. I finally decided to write it for this bang, and I’m glad I did. I love how it turned out, and the lovely Nisaki made stunning art for this! You can find the post [here](https://nisaki-chan.tumblr.com/post/631890005341716480/art-for-wbb-202), please go and give it some love! <3
> 
> Also major thanks to [klove0511](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klove0511/pseuds/klove0511) for beta-ing this on such short notice!

Sam muttered a few arcane words, and the daylily lost its poisonous properties as it crumbled to tiny pieces under the press of his hand. It was a satisfying crunch, and he repeated the process with the fool’s parsley. He sprinkled the dry ingredients into the wet blend of ground up valerian and night phlox leaves, and mixed them together with his mortar and pestle. His favorite set, the one made out of dark gray granite that had belonged to his aunt.

Once all ingredients were a thick paste, he went to his kitchen where the wolfbane and butterfly chrysalis simmered and moved the pot to what he secretly called his witch room. Mildred from the diner in town gave it that term as a joke two years ago, not knowing the truth behind her words. Sam had liked the irony of it and kept that name.

What he worked on was indeed magic. He grabbed his silver ritual knife and dragged it in a clean cut across his forearm. A good hundred milliliters of his blood swirled into the water with the wolfbane and the crushed chrysalis. Sam wrapped a cloth around his stinging wound and stirred. He would tend to the cut in a minute.

Sam blended in the paste and then took the whole pot out into the garden. He placed it on a wooden crate he kept outside for such occasions and finished in a catlike stretch, arms wide, and rolling his neck back and forth, deeply inhaling the musky-sweet air of fall. He had been bent over potion and spell preparations since dawn.

“Don’t nibble on this,” he told the raven by his vegetable patch. He was watching Sam from atop the scarecrow that was only there because the ravens loved to perch on its plush arms. The raven croaked and fluttered off into the red crown of a nearby maple.

His garden was unremarkable. This would change when the moon came out and most of the flowers bloomed. Moonlight was what the concoction—that could not yet be labelled cure—needed too and what it would get in a few hours. First though, Sam brushed a blanket of leaves aside and plucked some sweet smelling chamomile and some feverfew blossoms. Their yellow and white flowers looked alike, but Sam could differentiate between them with ease.

The garden was his pride. More so than his magic and the books he had gathered throughout his life. His vegetables and herbs and flowers grew better than for the normal person, but there was nothing normal about Sam, and he had made his peace with that in early teenage years.

He minced half of his little harvest with a skilled hand, the knife—regular steel this time—a comfort to him. He wiped the blade, cleaned his table, and stored the plants away for later. The cure would be done by morning, after Sam had added a blooming moonflower and spoken the last words of the incantation.

Tomorrow, he would cure the werewolf. Tonight, he would find him.

⁂

His chamomile tea had grown cold.

A clock ticked in his kitchen—too loudly for Sam’s hunger headache. He opened the window to his porch, inviting in the more pleasant bird song in the distance and the rustling of the trees as wind caught a few leaves and made them dance through the air.

His pantry was almost empty, and his stomach growled a complaint. Sam hadn’t had time to cook today and his preparations for the winter were lousy for mid-october too.

Two hours to sundown.

Making a decision, he downed his cold tea. He didn’t like the mellow apple-like flavor when it wasn’t hot, but he didn’t have much of his favorite blend left, so he had resorted to simple tea flavors last week. Grocery shopping was in order.

A raven drummed on the window frame, grabbing his attention. It wasn’t the same little guy from before. This was his mother.

“Hello, you. What have you got for me?” he asked. She dropped a glass shard onto his palm, maybe from a bottle as it had a slight green tint to it, and Sam’s chest warmed. “Thank you.”

He stuck it on a shelf next to the other trinkets. From a jar of nuts he angled out a handful of the unsalted peanuts to put on the table by the window. He didn’t hide the jar. The ravens had made the mistake of daring to open it without his presence only once. He hadn’t given them treats for two weeks and they had apologized with dozens of lost earrings, bottle caps, and even a few coins, until Sam forgave them for betraying his trust. They did what he told them for the most part now.

“I’m going into town for a bit. You share those with your family, alright?” She took one in her beak, lingered for a moment, and flew off. He left the window open for her.

The hex bags were already buried in five places surrounding the town and everything he could prepare in advance was prepared. He’d earned himself a break.

⁂

The sole diner-slash-restaurant in a six miles radius was a cozy family run business that drew in a lot of guests not because there were no alternatives, but because the food tasted home cooked (and looked like it too, but nobody complained that the food wasn’t artfully stacked on fancy plates) and the staff treated you as a part of the family. In a way everyone was. Sam greeted Alice and Darren, a senior couple who liked to dine here on Mondays, and they smiled at him.

Nobody else was there, and Sam preferred it this way. He seated himself by the bar, not keen on sitting at a table by himself. Mildred, the elderly co-owner of the place, beamed at him and took out her little notepad. “Sam! A nice surprise to see you out of your little cabin. How have you been?”

“I’m great, thanks. Is that pumpkin soup I smell?”

Mildred was already making a note. “Perfectly in season and fresh on the stove. Would you like some?”

“That sounds amazing.”

“I’ll tell Hank to throw up a grilled cheese for you too. Water?” Sam confirmed and she continued, “You got it, I’ll bring you your drink once I’ve taken this young gentleman’s order. What can I get you?”

A man in a leather jacket slid into the seat two from Sam. He carried a faint whiff of motor oil with him, and Sam imagined he had one of those big trucks parked outside, or maybe a motorbike. He seemed that type of guy.

“Hey. What kind of burgers you got?” he asked with a sly grin. He turned to Sam and gave him a nod that Sam didn’t reciprocate.

“Bacon alright with you?”

“Hell, yeah!”

“Then you’ll love Hank’s special. Anything to drink?”

“Beer.”

As soon as Mildred left for the kitchen, Sam allowed himself a quick once over of the man. He wasn’t much older than Sam and sat shoulders back, chin high, with an overconfidence like it didn’t occur to him people might resent his cockiness. He was attractive nonetheless, green eyes and fair spiky hair, the odd necklace almost out of place on him. He wasn’t Sam’s type at all, but he was pretty, and he held himself like he knew it.

“There you go, boys, water and a beer. Food will be ready shortly. Now tell me, young man, what brings you here?” Her voice had a touch of scolding grandma, but that was always the case. It didn’t stop young and old alike to open up to her when she was being nosy.

“Passing through,” he said. “I’m Dean, by the way.”

“Oh, fudge! I can’t believe I didn’t introduce myself. It’s not a habit, everyone knows each other here. I’m Mildred.” She held her hand out for him to shake. “We don’t get many new faces.”

“That’s fine. Nice to meet you.” Dean smiled. “I’m actually on my way to my granddad’s. I’m from a town over and I couldn’t help but catch some gossip about how a few farmers around here have found a lot of their stock dead recently. Is that true? I worry for my granddad’s farm, he doesn’t live far from here.”

Sam frowned and chill settled in his chest. Dean was lying. Distressing, coming from a stranger.

“I wouldn’t say _a lot_. Though for the farmers it probably is. I don’t know, it’s some kind of animal, I guess. A bear, wolf or—but they _did_ say the carcasses were quite strange...”

Sam bit his tongue, clammy hand holding his water.

“Strange?”

“Yeah, like their hearts had been eaten, but not much of the rest. Peculiar, isn’t it? Maybe Sam has heard something?”

Sam glanced up. “Sam?” asked Dean, and Mildred tilted her head toward him.

“He lives a few minutes out of town.” She turned to him. “Have you seen anything?”

Sam forced a smile. He caught Dean’s eyes. “Yeah. Seen a few wolves around.”

“Really?” asked Dean and squinted in a barely perceptible eye twitch, studying him. A hunter. Maybe that lie hadn’t been the best.

“Or heard them at least. Once or twice,” Sam adjusted his lie.

Dean hummed, jaw set. He radiated secret knowledge, but Sam had trouble reading him. His stomach hardened. He had attracted attention to himself.

Mildred brought them their food at the same time. Probably noticing the way Sam had closed off, she said, “Don’t mind him. He’s a bit of a lone wolf himself. Really sweet once you get to know him. Has excellent natural remedies too, if you believe my wife. Even got our daughter into it. That homeopathy thing is humbug if you ask me though. No offense, Sam.”

 _Mildred_.

The soup was heavy in his throat so he took a huge gulp of his water, which didn’t help one bit. His headache returned, different this time.

“Yeah, I’m more of a pills kind of guy myself.” Dean grinned like nothing was wrong, but his eyes were on Sam. Literally and figuratively.

Dean finished his burger first and left what Mildred’s face said was a healthy tip. “Any motels around here?”

“Afraid not,” said Mildred. “You’re better off driving the rest of the way to your grandfather’s. There’s still a little daylight left.”

Dean took off, but Sam had a feeling he wouldn’t be gone for good.

⁂

This werewolf would be dead if Dean found him before Sam did. So would Sam if Dean decided Sam was a suspect, or if he guessed he was a witch.

The smart course of action would be to leave this to the hunter and keep out of it—but while Sam did think of himself as smart, this was not what he would be doing.

Sam always put his groceries away the minute he came home, he hated unnecessary clutter and that included filled bags. Cleaning took his mind off things—usually. Today, he thought of his cure as he packed away the groceries, all to their proper place in the kitchen. And thought of the danger he was putting himself in as he lit the candles. And most of all, he thought of the hunter that rolled into town, with the intention to help, but who instead stuck a thorn into Sam’s beautiful preparations.

It was not until he had stoked his fireplace and the last of dawn had faded away, that Sam picked up on the restless energy in the air, him in the epicenter. The anticipation of a spell on the cusp of forming drifted around him after the moon sent her first rays this way. It manifested itself in a fluttering emptiness in his stomach. Normally he looked forward to that feeling.

The local map was spread out under the moonlight. The early flowers leisurely unfurled and stretched towards the sky, where the stars greeted them with the same cautiousness, slowly getting braver as the darkness coaxed them out.

The night slowed Sam’s body, though his mind was sharp. He spoke the words with precision. They rang through the night with urgency and poise, not the only sound but the one ears would naturally focus on, despite their low volume. It was a chant. Even the ravens came to watch and perched on the roof.

Wings fluttered rapidly as the map burst into flames and simmered down just as fast. The map was still in one piece, save for the hints of ash that fluttered over the paper and into Sam’s nose.

One flame remained, not bigger than a candle light. It moved across a length of farmland at a creeping pace—the werewolf, of course, covered the distance at a much faster pace than was depicted here.

Sam knew at once the owner of the land had to be the victim, a farmer named Joseph. Nice man, as far as Sam’s interactions with him had gone. He didn’t deserve to die.

He hoped Dean wasn’t getting lucky by being by at the right place at the right time—or right place at the wrong time. All cattle slaughtered had been in the general vicinity, Joseph’s farm and the adjacent ones. And hope was all Sam could do as he checked on the bowl he had left outside.

Over the next hours he kept track of the flame flickering and flowing across the map. He needed today’s full moon for the cure and he couldn’t heal him in wolf form. There was nothing to do but wait for tomorrow and observe.

So Sam, sitting outside in a thick wool pullover, let the somberness of the night envelop him. The air tasted of foreboding bitterness, and his ring was hot as he twisted it around.

The forest rustled all around him, but Sam was far from danger tonight.

The last of his four o’clocks had opened—yellow, red, and magenta—when a raven landed on his restless knee.

“A present, now?” He held up his palm for the raven to lay the offering on. He dropped a cord with something dangling from it and Sam raised it into the moonlight. It was a strange pendant, coated in fresh blood, and the cord was ripped. It took Sam a mere second to remember where he had seen it before. It was Dean’s.

“Oh no.” Sam nearly kicked the raven off his lap in his haste to stand. The little guy spread his wings and called out in indignation.

Sam owned a car. It was parked a short walk away from his house by the road that almost didn’t deserve that term. There was a makeshift garage— _shed_ —and the car inside it was old and nothing special, but it was always stored with the bare necessities. For a witch, that was.

He drove out.

Sam left the map in his garden. It showed the werewolf's current position, but he knew approximately where he had been ten minutes to an hour ago. He didn’t know how quickly the raven had found Dean, but his intuition told him it couldn’t be too late to help him yet.

He wasn’t dead, Sam was sure of that.

Fear of what he could discover was looming over him nonetheless as he stepped out of his car and began searching with a flashlight. The clouds have been dimming the moon on and off for the past hour.

He couldn’t have been searching for more than fifteen minutes, but they extended to an hour in his mind, when in a moment of clear sky, the Hunter’s Full Moon illuminated Dean, pointing him out to Sam.

His flashlight wasn’t necessary after all, it was apparent a fight had taken place. Blood, patches of dark hair, a gun laid a few feet from Dean. There was no need to check to know it was loaded with silver bullets.

Dean was by the tree line, body distorted in odd angles and blood seeped out from multiple wounds. The red glistened beautifully. It was almost peaceful.

Peaceful, yet not dead. Dean was holding on and he wouldn’t die tonight either.

  


* * *

  


The first thing on Dean’s mind was the way his muscles throbbed and not the fact that he was neither in a hospital nor dead.

The pain wasn’t as overwhelming as he would expect, waking up after getting half slaughtered. Hot and biting pain, he didn’t feel any of that.

What did he last remember—the werewolf. He could have died—he was astounded he didn’t. And as he sat up in bed, in an unfamiliar bedroom, simply furnished with a wardrobe, bookshelves, and hardy desk, he checked his injuries. They weren’t bandaged and appeared like they had been healing for weeks.

He clenched his teeth. He must have been out for forever. At least he wasn’t in a hospital. But looking around, he couldn’t find his clothes or weapons or his phone. He needed to call Dad. He needed to deal with the werewolf too.

The shirt and sweatpants on him weren’t his, and he didn’t want to think about having to thank whoever had saved his life. _He_ was supposed to be the one doing the saving.

To the right of the bedroom door was a bathroom, and he used the toilet. The walls were wood and stone, and glancing out the window, he could see nothing but trees.

Downstairs, he found himself in a hallway, the wooden floor cold under his bare feet. Through an ajar door came the clattering of metal or glass utensils and something boiling. His instincts made him check the other door first, a living room.

The smell of incense and firewood hit him. The furniture was of mismatched wood, a desk, shelves with books on various topics—gardening, cooking, history, even law. On the couch was a crumpled knitted blanket and in front of it a fireplace but no TV. Various candles were on all the surfaces even though there was a ceiling light. He took a closer look at a candle—a symbol he didn’t recognize was carved into it.

He pressed on, stepping further into the room. A window faced out into a garden where a lanky scarecrow was prominently displayed amongst various plants. It grinned at him, the head a big ball of padded fabric. A raven perched on its shoulders, pecking at the scarecrow's eye, the black wool falling in strings across the cheeks.

Dean grabbed the windowsill as the raven snapped its head at him. Irrationally, his heart skipped a beat. The raven shot off. His eyes fell on the cracked metal pentagram on the sill as he stepped back. He turned on his heel and fled the room.

He approached the kitchen and gritted his teeth before he stepped in.

A man—Sam from the diner—stood by the stove, filling a gloopy cherry-red substance into jars. He noticed Dean and smiled. “Oh, you’re up. How are you feeling?”

“I’m… how long was I out?” asked Dean. The kitchen was rustic, old-fashioned. A variety of containers packed with spices and other ingredients were on a shelf. And a dozen knives prominently displayed on the wall by the counters.

“Sit and eat something. I’m just finishing up this jam, but I still have some left from last time. No doubt you’re hungry, long as you slept.” He put down his ladle and led Dean to a table by the window as if he was fragile. Dean let him and sat rigidly on the chair.

“How long did I sleep?” he repeated his inquiry, less wary than before.

“More than twelve hours. It’s mid afternoon,” said Sam and continued filling his jars, his back to Dean.

Dean tensed. His wounds hadn’t been healing for weeks. “You’re a witch.”

Sam screwed the lids shut, not turning to face him. “I saved your life.” Which was confirmation enough.

“Why?” asked Dean coldly.

“Because Joseph nearly killed you.”

Dean chose his next words deliberately, dread rising in him. “You know about him. You’re protecting the werewolf.”

“That’s, n—That’s not incorrect, but it’s not how you think.” He opened a cupboard. “Bread or toast?”

“What do you want from me?”

Sam took out a whole loaf and cleaved into it with a hefty bread knife. Dean glanced at the door, his muscles stiff and sore, feeling weak all over. Sam brought the whole cutting board over to Dean, two slices pre-cut, and placed it before him, leaving the knife on the board like a taunt. His piercing eyes grabbing Dean’s. “I want you to leave him be.”

Dean was vulnerable—unarmed, in an foreign environment, freshly recovered from a near slaughter—but he was a hunter and this was not what he stood for. He raised his head. “I’m sure you think you’re the good guy here, for saving my life or whatever—not that I don’t think there will be a hook, and not that I _needed_ your hocus pocus—but I’m also sure you know why I’m here. The werewolf might _now_ only be hunting cattle, but he’s a monster. It’s always the same: first livestock, then humans.”

“I know you have noble intentions. Hunters often do. But you’re also a stubborn bunch and you see the world in black in white. It’s not that simple—”

“It is. You’re a monster, you die. Whether you’re a physical monster, or a human who got corrupted by freaky shit.”

“How can you believe that?” asked Sam in a quiet voice, but no less confident.

“Well I never met an innocent witch, for one,” Dean dared to say.

Sam hummed and turned, bringing older jam and a butterknife to Dean. “Eat. You’re weak.”

The edges of Dean’s sight squirmed and his hand trembled as he took the butterknife.

“Where’s my stuff?” he asked tonelessly, when Sam was back by the counters. He was placing the full jars in a boiling water bath.

“Your weapons? Your phone? You get that back once you promise me not to kill Joseph.”

Dean didn’t need weapons to kill a witch, but he did need to be able to stand on his feet. He deemed the bread and the jam safe to eat and meticulously fixed himself a slice.

“Would you like tea with that?” asked Sam, like this was a casual get together.

“Are you gonna poison me?” asked Dean, an edge to his sweet tone. He did take a bite though.

Sam leant back against the counter and didn’t show anger. “No. I don’t want you dead. And I don’t want the werewolf dead either. I’m going to cure him.”

“That’s not possible. There is no cure.”

“I made one.”

“You made one?” asked Dean.

“Yes. I used it on you. I guess you’ll see, once you don’t transform tonight.” Sam paused, crossed his arms. ”You know you’ve been bitten.”

Dean swallowed hard. He didn’t want to think about it, but it had been in the back of his head. He remembered the teeth in his flesh. “If that’s your intention, why didn’t you cure him last night?”

“I did need to find him first, didn’t I?”

“How did you?”

“Magic. How do you like the jam? I made it myself.”

“It’s fine.”

But Sam could see too that he had finished the slice and smiled at him. “Eat up. You need your strength. The wounds should be completely gone by tomorrow, after I’ve cured Joseph and you’ve had one more round of my hocus pocus.” Sam smirked. Dean frowned instinctively. “I’m not going to let you take off like that,” Sam added.

“Fine.” Dean dragged his clammy palms over his pant legs and smeared the second slice. He was hungry, despite his rolling stomach. And while he preferred meat, the jam did taste delicious. Rich, not too sweet, and reminded him of cherry pie.

A rune with criss-crossed lines and circles was etched on the window frame that looked vaguely familiar, and out of the corner of his eyes he thought he saw the raven in the tree again.

He ate another three bread slices—home-made, Sam mentioned—and watched him fish out the jars and put them in the fridge, cleaning up after himself right away. “Listen, I’m going to go out for—”

“I’m coming with,” said Dean at once, pulse hammering in his throat.

“You mean to Joseph? I was saying I need to gather mushrooms first.”

Dean wasn’t convinced by Sam’s promise of a cure, and he wouldn’t let himself get shaken off like that. If he needed mushrooms for that, Dean would follow along. Or catch him in a lie. “You heard me.”

“Alright, come on then, we’ll find you something else to wear.”

He presented Dean with fresh jeans, a shirt, and Dean’s boots and leather jacket. The jacket had been cleaned and the pockets emptied. Sam had slipped out of the bedroom to fetch the jacket and Dean hadn’t dared to sneak along.

⁂

Sam pushed a wicker basket into Dean’s hand, and they entered the forest three steps from Sam’s front porch. It was chillier than Dean had expected. The sun on the warm colors of the aspen trees suggested one thing, while the wind biting his cheeks spoke of something else.

They walked in silence for a bit. Further into the thick of the forest, the sun flickered through the canopy in sparse rays, streams of light here and there, leaving the majority of the surroundings impenetrable and bleak, stretching infinitely wide.

Sam trudged over branches and dead trees and seemed to instinctively know where he would find the best mushroom spots, some of them quite questionable, but Dean wasn’t an expert on any account. Dad had taught him survival basics when they went camping, and the most important piece of advice stuck in his mind as Sam cut off mushrooms he didn’t recognize—to never eat anything you couldn’t positively identify. He knew he wouldn’t be eating any of it, but he frowned at them nonetheless.

Sam appeared content with the quiet. He was comfortable in the forest. And while Dean wasn’t afraid of the animals that naturally crept through the woods, far from it, he knew a werewolf was still out there and it was getting close to dusk.

Stomping over cracking twigs and decaying leaves, Dean’s orientation soon went astray, body aching and mind not up to his usual concentration levels during a hunt. That didn’t stop him from noticing the environment—always on the lookout—and glaring at the raven that was following them, jumping from branch to branch, observing them like it was curious.

“He’s clingy, that one.”

Dean’s head snapped to Sam, who was placing a handful of common mushrooms in the basket that reminded Dean of fairy ring mushrooms.

“I nursed his mother back to health once, but he acts like I saved him, not her. I think he just enjoys watching me work,” Sam said with a grin.

Dean hummed and swallowed his excess saliva. His hand was cold around the handle, gripping the woven wicker with stiff fingers.

They continued on their path, Dean followed Sam apprehensively.

“You think I'm a monster to hunt?” Sam asked with a twinkle in his eye. A challenge.

Dean wasn’t about to lie. He lifted his chin. “Yes.”

“I don’t think you’re a monster for killing people,” Sam said, making Dean stumble.

“I don’t kill people. I kill creatures,” he bit out.

“I don’t kill people either. And using magic doesn’t make me less human than you.” Sam was marching in front, glancing back as he spoke. “I want to help Joseph become human again. _You_ want to kill him.”

Dean clenched his teeth, hesitating. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, aren’t I?”

“You know.” Sam stopped to look at him. “My father got turned by a werewolf when I was a teenager. By then I’d already been fiddling with magic—my aunt was a witch—and I knew enough basics to do my own research and create a cure.”

“Create a cure,” repeated Dean. His heart thudded dully in his chest. He didn’t have a lot of experience with witches, but the information he’d gotten from Dad—he swallowed. Even the ones who dabbled into magic like children in a sandbox were nasty business. And Sam came across as far more knowledgeable than that. He knew what he was doing, and he’s been doing it for ages.

“Yes,” said Sam. He gave Dean a big grin and Dean wondered what else he could do. Sam twisted his knife and sidestepped Dean to pick a mushroom to Dean’s right.

The raven rested on a branch above Sam, watching over him.

Dean held out the basket, and Sam led them further into the woods. Further into the endless expanse of trees that were whispering in the wind. Every so often Sam and Dean would come across a tree whose bark was cracked open in such a way that it looked like an eye had sprung from it. A dark contrast to the otherwise white bark. Always looking at Dean, always following him until he was out of sight.

“Are you sure this one’s safe?” Dean asked about a bulbous orange mushroom Sam dug out from under pine needles.

“This is a lobster mushroom, so yes,” he said, placing it in the basket next to the yellow morels. “Well…”

“Well what?” If this was for a cure, there surely wouldn’t be any poisonous ingredients.

“Well, it’s technically not a mushroom but a parasitic mold. It tastes great, though.”

“Oh, now you’re angling for taste?” Dean asked. He shifted the basket from one arm to the other. “Wait a minute. If you already had a cure for me, why are we out here gathering mushrooms?”

Sam was still in his perch and looked up at him with furrowed brows. “What?”

“Did you use up what you had for me?”

“Oh,” said Sam like everything made sense. “You think this is for the cure. No, I didn’t use up what I had. The mushrooms are for the soup I want to make tonight.”

Dean took a step back, appalled. “Then why am I here?”

Sam stood and chuckled. “You said you wanted to come. And you’re a good help. Besides, I had to know if you can stand on your feet for a while. You seem to be doing fine.”

Dean didn’t respond.

He didn’t know how long they wandered the woods, how long it had been since they left the house, or how much longer until sundown. The longer the silence between them swelled, the louder their footsteps seemed. Dean itched to tell him to tread with more care, but he himself was the one who kept stepping on cracking branches and whose jumps off fallen tree trunks echoed in his head. His heartbeat was in his ears too.

His legs were getting heavy. If Sam walked any faster Dean would lose him. He knew it was irrational, Sam wouldn’t leave him behind. He was carrying the basket after all.

“What about those?” he said to break the quiet, to ground himself in reality, to not have Sam ditch him out here. He pointed out a wavy tan-colored mushroom growing on bark where Sam had gone past.

“Those are aspen oyster mushrooms,” said Sam. “I have them in my garden. They glow in the dark.”

“You’re shitting me.”

Sam moved on with a smug face and left Dean to wonder.

They spend an excruciating time roaming without gathering any more mushrooms. The basket was full and Sam had offered to take it. Dean refused.

He wished he had bread crumbs to sprinkle behind him so Sam wouldn’t be able to drop him off to die like in that fairy tale. The one where in the end the witch tried to eat the children. Fatten them up and cook them in the oven. Dean was being led into the forest, only the witch was already with him. And Sam was far more capable than a gingerbread hag.

Despite the lack of direct sunlight, the sun couldn’t have set yet. But it must be getting late and he hadn’t eaten more than those few pieces of bread. The werewolf was still alive and Sam kept smiling at the raven. His scalp prickled.

To Dean they were moving away farther and farther from Sam’s house, but as he thought to turn around and try to find the way back himself, the cabin emerged between the trees, still made of stone and wood, no sweets.

His head fell back at the first sight, and he uttered a soft curse to the sky. His shoulders released. He hadn’t noticed how tense he was.

“I thought you were getting us lost,” Dean admitted, as they entered.

“I don’t get lost.”

Dean put the full basket on the kitchen counter, and Sam lit some candles. Dean slumped onto a chair by the table, the one he sat in before. Three all white candles were nestled in brackets on the table, amidst an artful array of leaves. Dean wasn’t sure it had been here before.

It was probably a fire hazard, but fuck, at least they were inside again.

“What are the symbols doing?”

“Only good things,” said Sam and started on the soup.

Dean, with an eye on the clock, helped chop the mushrooms as Sam did the brunt of the cooking. Dean knew how to cook too—at least basic recipes—but Sam kept using spices and herbs and different ingredients like he either wasn’t afraid of a wrong ingredient ruining the soup, or like he has been cooking this particular recipe for years.

“How long have you lived here?” asked Dean once the pot was on the stove, not expecting a real answer. Sam set the kettle to boil.

“This was my auntie’s house first, she had used it as a summer home, more or less. I used to visit her every summer, and to be honest with you, I always loved it better here than at my parents’ place. Not because of them, my parents were lovely people. But this house is special. I moved in after she died.”

He set a cup in front of Dean. A simple white mug, but the liquid inside was red like blood. “What’s that?”

Sam smiled like he said something silly. “Tea, of course. Do you want lemon with that?” asked Sam, cutting himself a slice. He dropped one slice in his mug and one in Dean’s, and sat in the chair across the window.

“Let me guess, that tea is home-made too?” asked Dean. Sam looked pleased and nodded. “Is this some witchy stuff? Did you grow the tea leaves from dead bodies?” The question was meant half as a joke, the remnants of his paranoia trying to seep out in humor, though Dean did have some suspicions still and joking was what he did when he couldn’t do anything else.

To his surprise Sam laughed, eyes brightening up. “Would you like to know if I did?”

“Eh, no thanks.”

“Alright then.” Sam smirked and sipped his tea. “I did make it myself, yeah.”

“What’s in it?” asked Dean carefully.

“Hibiscus, lemongrass and lemon verbena, blackberry leaves, rosehip, and a bit of peppermint,” Sam rattled off. “It’s my favorite blend.”

“So half your garden, huh?” Less wary than before, Dean tried the tea. It was very acrid and slightly herbal. Sour but not in a mouth curling way and Dean found he quite liked it. Almost too hot against his lips, but wonderfully warm going down his throat and settling in his belly.

They left the soup to simmer and the earthy smell of mushrooms filled the room. Sam cracked the window.

Dean became calmer by the minute and he wondered if Sam had put something in the tea.

“I think it’s time to go,” declared Sam after a stretch of silence.

“And the soup?”

“The soup needs to cook for more than thirty minutes still, and I won’t be long.”

“I’m coming with you, we’ve already established that.”

“Sure you don’t want to eat first? That walk took quite a lot out of you.”

Dean glared at him. “I’ll be fine.”

⁂

Eventually, Sam relented, the setting sun a reminder of their shrinking time, and let Dean come with him. Sam drove them to the farm where Dean had been mauled last night. Dean was certain they would be late, it had been stupid to put it off to the last minute, but Sam assured him this was the best time.

Yeah, the best time to catch the werewolf before he could run off.

In the end it was an experience unlike any Dean had before.

Usually, he didn’t stick around for the reaction of the people he saved. It would require explanation and proof, and it was easier to ditch town, leaving the police to agonize over another mystery. He _did_ usually leave behind a corpse after all.

Joseph was jumpy and restless—some of Sam’s tea would do him good, if there wasn’t the furry, sharp-toothed underlying problem. He wasn’t keen on letting them in, eyeing the sky nervously, and Dean knew he was aware of what was happening to him each month, however long he’s been going through this. Joseph didn’t recognize Dean, and Sam was quick to reassure him, saying he could help him.

Sam gave him the cure and Dean… felt strangely bad about it. Joseph thanked Sam profusely as Dean stood behind him, and it all played before Dean like a blurry movie. They waited in anticipation, but Joseph was already slumped in relief, trusting the resident witch that readily. Ten minutes later, he was still human.

And Dean had been planning to kill him.

Dean, of course, hadn’t transformed either. His skin was tense on him anyway as he and Sam made their way back. Sam carried a little basket with fresh eggs Joseph had insisted he accept.

All the shadows followed them—followed Dean—and the wind roared and howled, urging along heavy clouds.

They picked up the Impala on the way, the impressed look on Sam’s face only a small victory. Sam threw him his keys, and Dean caught them with a shaking hand. He slid into the driver’s seat with a deep sigh. Sam went to his own car.

He could take off right then and there, phone and gun be damned, but when he started the motor he found himself driving on Sam’s tail.

The rain hit hard on the walk from the shed, and Dean didn’t utter a word, letting himself get soaked, the water creeping into his shirt and cooling his hot cheeks.

Back inside, Sam turned off the stove, got a hearty fire going in the living room's fireplace, and went upstairs to fetch dry clothes. Dean’s eyebrows rose—he had also brought back his phone, his ivory-gripped gun and the boot knife he had with him. Sam passed him the bundle. “Sorry, I couldn’t save your jeans and shirts, but here’s a change of clothes.”

“Thanks,” said Dean awkwardly and stuffed them under his arm. He grabbed the phone.

“You’re invited to stay the night,” Sam continued. “After all, you helped make dinner. But I won’t hold it against you if you want to go.”

No new messages from Dad. Dean closed his eyes for a second, the exhaustion hitting him full force. It smelled divine in the kitchen.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll stay,” said Dean. He pointed up. “I’ll just, uh, go change.” He dragged himself up the stairs, into the bathroom.

He dialed Dad’s number. And waited.

Dialed it again.

Still nothing.

  


* * *

  


Sam brought Dean a bowl of the mushroom soup and joined him on the couch with his own plate. Dean began eating, dejected.

“Are you okay?”

“Sure, I’m good,” said Dean. But he sounded less than. His hair was wet still, same as Sam’s, but they had luckily missed the brunt of the heavy downpour.

Dean’s face was soft in the glow of the fire. He had freckles.

“Oh! Your necklace,” he remembered with a look at Dean’s clothes—Sam’s clothes. “I forgot about it, I have it in—Wait a second—”

Sam stood and went to a bookshelf by the other wall, not worried about Dean in the room, and pulled on a book, a hidden lever. The door swung open.

“A hidden room behind a bookshelf?” asked Dean behind him. Sam grinned.

“It’s not hidden,” he said and stepped inside. The cleaned necklace was on the table and he returned to the couch with it, dropped it in Dean’s lap. “Here. The string was broken, I swapped it out. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all. Thank you.” He studied it silently, stroked the pendant, and didn’t put it on yet.

“Hey, uh,” Sam said, picking the soup back up. “I’m not sure you know—I couldn’t help but notice, the pendant, it—”

“Yeah, it has a protection charm on it. My uncle Bobby got it from some woman down south, years ago,” explained Dean. “I’ve had it since forever, so it would’ve been a shame if I’d lost it. Thank you for giving it back.” This time he sounded more earnest and he even gave him a smile.

“Protection charm? No, that’s not quite what—” Sam frowned and stopped.

Dean perked up. “Huh?”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, a bit sheepish for having brought it up, but replied anyway, “Well, it’s magic, alright. But not that.”

“What is it then?”

“No idea. I’ve never seen anything like it and I can’t identify it. But it’s nothing bad, I know that much.”

“Huh,” Dean said almost tonelessly and stared at the necklace. He didn’t look troubled by it.

“I can… do that? If you want? The protection charm, I mean,” Sam offered.

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“Sure, okay,” said Dean to Sam’s surprise.

Sam cleaned his plate first and heated water for tea, while Dean went for seconds. He was glad to see Dean eat, after he had been so hesitant with the initial portion.

“You know, I’m actually surprised you don’t have more protective magic on you. As a hunter,” he said, when they reconvened back in front of the fire.

“What do you mean?”

“Like tattoos, or even a ring would be more practical than a necklace. There are various uses. There’s plenty of repelling magic against possession, for one. Ghosts, demons, even as far as keeping Djinn magic out.”

Dean regarded him with a pensive expression, then smirked. “How do you know I don’t have any tattoos for that already?”

Sam raised his eyebrows, amused, and cocked his head.

“Oh, right,” Dean averted his gaze and sobered up. He scraped the last bit of his soup from the plate and put it on the table. “I don’t know. It’s not like hunters have that kind of stuff just readily available. It’s typically fixing something that’s already happening, rather than preventing it.”

“You mean killing it.”

“Most of the time, yeah.” Dean winced and pulled his brows in. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled. Sam hoped it was coming their direction. Thunderstorms always brought a special sort of energy to the air. This was Sam’s favorite weather. He loved curling up with a novel or tome, listening to the rain and the crackling fire, letting the day go by.

Dean was tense, so Sam poured him a cup of tea.

“Thanks. Do you have any?” Dean asked and took a sip. “Tattoos.”

“I have all types of protection. Not that I need it, necessarily. But it’s always useful to be prepared.”

“I guess,” said Dean. He was still hunched over. Maybe the day was catching up to him, he must be tired. “Hey, did you put anything in this tea?”

“Yes,” answered Sam honestly, curious for Dean’s reaction. “It has restorative powers.”

Dean gave a slow nod and led the cup to his lips.

Sam waited a beat. “What’s on your mind?” he asked, softly. Dean’s whole demeanor radiated a restless energy like he hadn’t relaxed with a cup of tea in years, if ever. “You can stay as long as you like, you know,” he added. “You could probably do with a break.”

Dean didn't meet his gaze. “I barely did anything today.”

“You got torn to shreds not one day ago. Do you need to be somewhere?”

Dean gritted his teeth, the muscles in his temple shifting, and for a moment Sam thought he had found the raw spot and Dean wouldn’t answer. Then he sighed deeply and said, “It’s my dad. He’s gone missing.”

“Missing? When did you last see him?”

“It’s complicated,” said Dean and shrugged. “We haven’t hunted together in a while. But he’s always stayed in contact, and then—Shit. He won’t answer his phone anymore.”

“And you don’t know where he was last?”

“I have an idea, but it might not be much. I’m gonna make my way there next.”

Sam squeezed his shoulder. “I can help you find him.”

Dean snorted and caught his eye briefly. “Thanks, but I work alone.”

“How do you think I found out who the werewolf is? I didn’t find him with sheer luck. There’s magic for that sort of thing, like I said.”

Dean leaned forward. He smiled weakly. “You want to help me find my dad with your hocus pocus?”

“I would need to prepare tomorrow, it’s a bit of complicated blood magic, but yes.”

“How precise will that be?”

“The ritual locates close blood related family, so that uncle of yours would be included and other immediate family. Of course if you know where they all live, you can eliminate which locations aren’t your dad.”

“Bobby isn’t actually my uncle and I don’t have any other close family,” said Dean. “Living, at least.”

Sam bit his tongue not to say, _great, that will make it easier_ , and instead nodded slowly.

“So how long will it take?”

“I’m not sure,” Sam admitted. “I’ve never done it before.” He didn’t have any reason to, his family not being his actual blood relatives. “But I’m confident I can have it prepared for tomorrow night.”

Dean gave him a bright real smile that crinkled his eyes and touched something in Sam’s chest. “Awesome.”

It was too early yet to go to sleep, so Sam poured them another cup and dug out some old cookies from his cupboards. They weren’t home-made, baking wasn’t Sam’s strong suit even though he did love to try occasionally. Dean didn’t seem to mind.

Sam stoked the fire and shuffled closer to Dean when he sat down. They remained in silence for a while, watching the rain on the windows. The thunder had finally caught up with the light and every so often the sky would flash, accompanied immediately by the loud crack.

“Have you been a hunter for long?” asked Sam on his third cup, to keep the conversation going.

“Oh, my whole life practically.”

“Really?” he asked gently. In Sam’s experience most hunters were thrown into the life by a loss or a similar incident with the supernatural. It was a tragedy how many hunters got born this way.

“My—My mom died in a fire when I was four. Had a little brother, too. The fire burned down our house back in Kansas. It’s just me and my dad now.”

Sam regarded Dean quietly. “Was it supernatural?”

“Yeah, my dad thinks so. He’s hunting whatever it was. And he’s been teaching me along the way. We’ve been pretty much living on the road. I knew how to fire and clean a shotgun before I could properly read.”

“Damn,” said Sam. “That must have been hard,” he added in a soothing tone.

“Eh, it was fine, really. It’s just—” Dean stopped and rubbed his arm absent-mindedly. “He’s the only family I have left. I can’t leave him.”

Sam’s throat was thick as he nodded. The hum of the air gripped at his chest. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I hope he’s okay. You’ll find him.”

“Thanks,” Dean said somewhat shyly. “But he’s been hunting for two decades, he can protect himself. He taught me everything I know.”

“But you’re still worried.”

“Yeah. He’s my dad.”

Nothing but the rain on the window and the crackling fire filled the room for another moment.

“You said you made the cure for your father? He’s still alive?” Dean asked eventually, turning to him.

“I was fourteen. I was aware werewolves existed, but luckily I’ve never met one before. Or any other creature.” They were so close and they both spoke in a low tone, their words not having to travel far to reach the other.

“Did your parents know?”

Sam smiled grimly. “Not until Dad got bitten. Well, they _knew_ what I’ve been reading, but they had no clue how real it was.”

“I’m sure that was a shocker.” Dean’s voice was gravelly and warm.

“Totally. Dad didn’t hurt anyone the first time and by the next full moon I had a cure.”

“What happened to the werewolf that bit him?”

“I’ve no idea. I never found him.”

Dean hummed and looked away. Sam _did_ have an idea. Chances were great a hunter had taken care of him, the murders had been all over the news. And Sam’s father would have become one of the headlines too, had Sam not stepped in.

“There are a lot of _monsters_ that float under a hunter’s radar, you know that, right?” Sam said and held his breath. He didn’t want to lecture Dean, but it had to be said, and—he thought maybe, _maybe_ he had opened Dean’s eyes today, even if only a little bit. Dean didn’t resemble the overconfident guy from the diner anymore—he wasn’t sure of himself like he had been yesterday. He didn’t react the same way to Joseph. To Sam.

He caught Dean’s eyes, gleaming in the firelight. Dean’s mouth twisted, but then he hummed softly, and his lips curled pleasantly. “You’re a good kind of monster.”

That startled a laugh out of Sam. “You’re not so bad yourself. For a hunter.”

Dean lifted one shoulder and tried to hide his grin behind his cup. “I’m great, actually. When I’m not out of action.” He cleared his throat. “Hey, uh. I don’t think I’ve said thank you before… For saving my life and letting me stick around for a bit. And _not_ letting me turn into a werewolf. That would have been quite ironic, huh?”

Sam leaned in and bumped their shoulders together. “You’re very welcome,” he said, putting the emotions behind it. Healing him had been no question, in no version of how the night could have gone, even if Dean had gotten the chance to kill Joseph.

And having Dean stay in his home, that was… like he was filling something that had been missing. It had been Sam’s choice to move here and he wouldn’t have it any other way, but it did get lonely.

“I meant it when I said you could stay for as long as you want. I—I understand you need to find your dad, but you’re always welcome to come visit me.” He didn’t mean it suggestively, but when he glanced up Dean flushed, and his eyes were almost asking.

Dean shrugged it off but still said, “Yeah, okay,” and brushed some crumbs off his lap.

One look at the low fire told him it was getting late. The heart of the storm had travelled on, though the rain was still going strong.

Sam usually stayed up far longer when he was by himself—some nights he didn’t sleep at all—but Dean was getting subdued. Sam didn’t have guests around often, yet he had the common sense to know when to end the evening.

“I think it’s time to go to sleep,” he said and, in a moment of nerve, he added, “You can take the couch or join me upstairs, if you want.” He was unsure about his suggestion the second he said it, unsure if he had mistaken the clues, or if they had only been in his head. He would be okay if Dean declined, though he feared he had turned subsequent meetings awkward, should Dean even want to visit him again after this.

Dean chewed his lip and combed a hand through his hair, regarding him and contemplating him for so long Sam could feel the pulse in his neck.

“The—the extra pillows and blankets are in the couch storage. It folds out too, makes a bed,” he said after too long of a pause, voice trembling at the start, but taking the rejection in stride.

Sam stood and started walking out of the room, when he felt Dean shift behind him, following him. He strode up the stairs light-headed, not looking back.

By the bedroom door he turned, opened it, and invited Dean through. Dean seemed a bit unsure, his hands fidgeting, and Sam wondered if he had ever slept with a guy before.

Dean bit his lip, and it came back wet and shiny, his face searching for something. Sam pulled him in by his hip and it was like a dam had broken in Dean, he pressed against him and snuck a hand into Sam’s hair. Sam was an inch or so taller than Dean, but they stood eye to eye, Dean now with a glazed over expression and half open mouth.

Sam’s fingers tingled as he cupped his cheeks and brought their lips together in a kiss—hardly that, it was a peck, a light touch of the lips.

Dean reared up and deepened it, knowing exactly how to move his lips to spur the heat in Sam's chest. Body flush against his and mouth moving sensually, sucking at his tongue and sharing the taste of sweet biscuits. He moaned in Sam’s mouth and desire hit him like lightning. It was so sudden and so intense Sam wondered momentarily where it had been hiding all day.

They broke the kiss when Sam moved them against the bed, scrambling up to lay at the head, hovering above Dean. Two hands buried in his hair, and Dean yanked him down, lips meeting again, their whole bodies involved this time. Sam ground his pelvis against Dean’s, both of them hard through their jeans, the fabric rubbing between them. Dean inhaled sharply through his nose and stared wide-eyed like he had just now noticed Sam had a dick too.

Sam was ready to withdraw at the hesitation on Dean’s face, then Dean pushed him off himself. Sam landed on his back next to him and had no time to think before Dean was on him, curling a hand around his nape and pulling him back in.

His dick ached in the confines of his pants, and there was no room to move, to thrust up, because Dean was tight against him, holding him down with all his weight, and too many clothes rubbed between them. It was almost more intimate this way, so close but through the fabric, the only points of skin contact were their hands and faces. Each touch was desperate and intense, but the kisses edged on the line between shy and like they’ve been kissing forever. Intense, was what it was, a portion of what could have happened and too much already.

Sam was lightheaded with the way Dean was tangled around him, reaching inside him with just his proximity. Sam mashed his cheek against Dean’s to catch his breath, the air between them scorching. Dean raised his head and his face mirrored the ache in Sam’s chest—lost and complete at the same time, and drunk on it. Deeply drunk on it and reaching for more.

Sam lifted his head to chase Dean’s lips and their mouths dragged together slowly, stinging from overuse and singing with the pleasure of it. Dean leaned down, sucking at his chin, his racing pulse, releasing a few shirt buttons to caress his collarbone. Sam clawed at his back, breath hitching with every press of lips, until the pressure released.

  


* * *

  


Unlike the day before, waking up today was much more pleasant.

Dean’s body didn’t hurt, he was rejuvenated, and he’d slept like a passed out drunk. Only he didn’t have a hangover, and instead of being in a rank motel room, he was snuggled up in a warm bed that hadn’t seen twenty different bodies in the last month alone and smelled accordingly.

No, this one smelled like freshly washed cotton, something fruity and fresh rather than cheap synthetic crap. And a faint whiff of after sex scent.

They had chucked their clothes before falling asleep wrapped around each other, and after coming Dean had felt too out of it to even consider thinking about what had happened and that he was drifting off with his hook-up.

Now, he wanted to stay in bed where everything was stress free and all his problems would stay far away if he just didn’t move. Sam was all over him, draped over him like a second blanket. Dean raised his head to smell his hair purely to find out whether Sam’s shampoo would be acceptable to use and not to brand this moment into his mind.

It was lemongrass, which he supposed was tolerable.

He’d had his first thing with a guy—where he didn’t chicken out last minute like one, two other times he’d gotten close—and he was a _witch_. It had happened in the very same witch’s house, in the witch bedroom that looked too much like a normal bedroom, and there had been something in the tea.

But fuck if he hadn’t wanted it. Something had pulled him to it, maybe a little bit of the danger, how he could be a match to him, and how Sam was just as tall as him, and muscular and brainy, and something— _something_ else. Something inevitable, and he couldn’t resist when Sam had offered.

He was loose limbed, his muscles were soft, and lying here he couldn’t muster up an ounce of regret.

Dean was unsure how long they had slept. The sun was shining through the closed curtains, covering the room in a muted glow. He got up without hurry, paying attention not to shake Sam too much. The bags under his eyes spoke of frequent short nights and Dean wanted to let him sleep.

Sam stirred when Dean was dressing himself in clothes he stole from the wardrobe—he could have grabbed his duffel bag from the car yesterday come to think of it, but they had been in a hurry to get out of the rain. And besides, Sam’s plaid shirts weren’t too dissimilar from his own.

Together they made their way into the kitchen. Dean drank coffee, and when Sam slipped off to the bathroom, he called Dad again. He wasn’t picking up and this time Dean hadn’t expected it.

“How soon will you have the spell ready?” he asked when Sam came back.

“Uh, to be honest I have to find it in my books first.”

“Wait, you don’t know if you have it?”

“No, I know for a fact I do. I’ve seen it before—I’ve been contemplating doing it. I simply need to find the particular book. It’s been a while.”

“Okay. How can I help?” asked Dean, perking up. “Four eyes are quicker than two.”

Ten minutes later Sam had gathered a stack of books, all with different tracking spells or magic dipping into similar topics. “Gotta be in one of these,” he said.

Dean blew out a long breath. “Alright, what am I looking for?”

“It’s a blood ritual, as I said. There’s a spell in Latin, about a page long. And there was a whole section on how the author invented the ritual based on other similar ones, from what I remember.”

“And you saw that last when exactly?”

“Maybe five years ago.”

“How do you remember that much? Can’t you do it from memory?” Dean glared at the books.

“I can try to make my own, if you have a few weeks,” Sam said and sounded like he meant it.

“No, this is fine,” he answered and picked the thinnest book from the top of the stack. Sam took the next.

It was handwritten. Not even anything official, it was messy like a personal diary. “Are you kidding? This is chicken scratch,” he said, squinting at the first sentence. “Is this even English?”

Sam glanced at his page. “18th century British English, you’ll do fine.”

Dean groaned. “Did you kill someone for this?”

“My aunt had been collecting for decades,” said Sam, not directly answering the question.

Dean quirked an eyebrow, but shuffled his chair closer to the table and started reading. Their knees touched.

In the time Dean skimmed through the one book Sam had gone through three. They didn’t read them cover to cover of course, and Dean had to read slowly and carefully to grasp what a particular chapter was about. It wasn’t a diary after all but a collection of various experiments the author had done.

The concept sounded promising, yet nothing in there was what they were looking for. The stack of books stood way too high and his stomach rumbled.

He left Sam to the rest and reheated the remainders of yesterday’s soup, bringing Sam a bowl.

After lunch Dean didn’t feel like going back to searching, figuring Sam was fast enough without him and he himself had barely made a dent in the stack. Sam was bound to find the right one soon with the proficiency he read the Old English and Latin and whatever language that third one had been in.

He explored the house, studying the different symbols on the walls and shelves, and reading book spines. Nothing stood out to him; nothing screamed _evil witch living here_ , and he even slipped into the room behind the bookshelf. There he did find some questionable ingredients, but the jar with blood was labeled “lamb” so he let it be. He even found a radio under the desk.

The house didn’t pretend to be the sinister witch’s hut anymore.

The scarecrow was still in the garden, watching over the vegetables. Without the raven on its shoulder it looked almost lonely.

“Dean?” called Sam an hour or so later. “I found it.” He appeared behind him with a book and a loose piece of paper.

“You did? Show me.” Sam turned the book for him to see and Dean glanced at the open page. The whole thing was Latin.

“Here,” said Sam and passed him the paper. “If you could grab those ingredients from the garden, I’ll get started on the rest.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s for a brew you’ll have to drink.”

Dean made a face. “What are you gonna put in it? Not any of that lamb blood you keep hidden in that room, I hope.”

“Uh, no. It’s mostly plant based. It makes your blood react to the spell.”

Dean read the note. It listed three plants and he didn’t know how to properly identify any of them.

“I have all of those growing in the garden,” explained Sam. “You can use my laptop if you don’t know what they look like.”

“Okay,” said Dean and gave him a silly grin. “I can do that.”

While Sam went to prepare whatever else they needed, Dean slipped outside and perched on the steps with the laptop. He noticed too late that they were wet from the night’s rain.

Sam’s garden was _overgrown_ , was the best way to describe it. Right across the window were the scarecrow and lower growing plants, and the whole side of the wall was full of ivy and various bushes. Different trees were all around the garden—a maple, one with strange crimson-purple berries, and one fiery looking one Dean recognized as a witch hazel. He was half sure not all of the plants were supposed to be able to grow here. It was like stepping into a fairytale, tumbling into a place he didn’t belong, except he had been invited in quite openly.

Fern and yarrow were easy enough to identify, though they did have him searching for a few minutes.

A caw made him look up. A raven—he couldn’t tell if it was the kid or one of its parents, or a completely different raven altogether—was staring at him like he had entered forbidden territory. It didn’t appear threatening but watched him closely, not daring to approach him.

“You got a problem with me being here, you take it up with Sam,” Dean grumbled and immediately felt weird about talking to an animal. The raven cawed again.

In the end the rosemary was in a pot by the steps Dean had been sitting on. Of course it was.

“Ah, just in time,” said Sam after he had brought him his harvest. “Oh, that’s a huge fern leaf.”

“You didn’t give a quantity,” Dean said in his defense and paused to examine Sam’s working station—a finely chopped grassy mush and a yellow liquid in a glass. The sharp sting of ginger was prominent in the air, presumably another ingredient. “Can I help with anything else?”

“Not really. I’ll have this ready in an hour or two, but we’d better do it at night.”

“Why’s that?”

“There’s a reason the moon has such a huge role in magic. It’s starting to wane tonight, we’ll be catching the tail end of the Hunter’s Full Moon.”

“Hunter’s Full Moon?”

Sam smirked. “The Harvest Moon isn’t the only one with a name. I think it’s quite fitting we’re using the magic of the Hunter’s one to find your dad.”

Dean left Sam to prepare and kept wandering around the house. He even vacuumed to feel useful. He’d like to help with the ritual—it was his dad after all—but it was clear he’d be in the way, so he took it upon himself to make dinner.

He didn’t know any complicated recipes, and while he’d seen cooking books on the shelves, he stuck to the familiar and whipped up mac and cheese, smiling at nothing as he busied himself. He checked the radio and found it broken, so it wouldn’t be playing anything anytime soon. He contemplated whether he had the time to fix it, but ended up humming Metallica to fill the quiet.

The golden afternoon light was gleaming in from the horizon when Sam came into the kitchen, on schedule to the finished mac and cheese. Dean turned off the stove to face Sam—and promptly got weak in the knees as Sam hooked a finger in his belt loop and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“The spell is ready,” said Sam.

Dean’s stomach swooped. He wasn’t so sure it was really from nervousness and not something else.

“Great,” he said and cleared his throat. “I cooked dinner.”

⁂

The garden by night was a whole different place. What had been mostly green a few hours ago was now glowing and blooming in white and muted pinks and yellows.

“Smells like chocolate,” said Dean.

“That would be the chocolate daisy next to you,” said Sam, referring to the bush of yellow petalled flowers, as he spread out a map on the crate-like table. It was a US map, and the sky was clear enough for them to not need a light source other than the moon. Had they not healed him, Joseph would have transformed tonight one last time for the month.

But he was cured and so was Dean, and now Sam passed him the concoction he had cooked up that evening. It smelled overwhelmingly of ginger and tasted bitter and burned down his throat—he should have put some of that chocolate flower in there.

Dean took two healthy gulps and couldn’t bear to drink more.

“That should be enough,” muttered Sam and Dean set the glass down next to the table.

“And now?” asked Dean.

“Now we wait a few minutes.”

Dean walked around the table a few times with a lightness in his step. A tenseness lingered in the air, an expectant suspense, and _soon_ he would know where his father was. Sam’s eyes sparkled, watching Dean with a smile that Dean returned with a wide grin.

His senses heightened, the rustling of the trees in the wind picked up all around them, driving goosebumps up his sides. Somewhere an owl screeched.

Sam extended an ornate silver knife to him. Dean grabbed it and took position across from him. “What do I do?”

“We need about a cup of your blood. Pour it in here.”

Dean cut his flesh readily and the blood dripped down his arms in a glistening flow. He filled the bowl halfway, a bit more than a cup, before taking the bandage Sam had prepared and wrapped it around his wound.

Sam clasped the bowl in both hands, and the way he spoke drew in Dean instinctually. An inevitable, inescapable pull. The draw of the spell centered his whole focus on the map and the blood and the incantation. Sam in the middle of everything. Dean’s Latin was reliable, but he didn’t hear a word, only the cadence of Sam’s voice and the rhythm of the sentences.

He didn’t feel apprehensive anymore. Sam was like a beacon in the night, the center of his attention, even more so than the moon. Mighty and strong. And Dean didn’t fear him.

Sam tipped the bowl, and Dean’s blood spread across the map, painting the entirety of the continental US a murderous red.

Seconds later flames soared up in a tall blaze, hitting Dean with a gust of heat. It burned in from the edges, consuming the blood and leaving the map underneath intact. Through the fire and smoke Sam glowed. Something tickled in Dean’s mind, Sam moved like a ghost, his facial expression changing from concentration to a confused frown.

The flames died down and left behind two specks of blood on the map. A point for Dad, somewhere in California, and another where they stood—his own marker.

“Dean,” said Sam carefully. “The thing with your grandfather was a lie, right?”

“What thing?” asked Dean the same moment he remembered. “Oh, yeah. ‘Course.”

Sam hummed, and rubbed his brow.

“Why? What is it?”

“Well there’s a second location marked. Around here.”

“Yeah. That’s mine, isn’t it?”

“No. You’re the spell’s target, it wouldn’t show you yourself.”

“Must be wrong then. I don’t have any other family.”

“I have a weird feeling about this,” said Sam and disappeared into the house.

“Okay? Are you fetching a California map, or should I clean this up, or?” he called after him.

Sam came back indeed with a fresh bowl and another map. But not a California map to close in on Dad’s location. A local one.

“What’s this one for?”

“Bear with me,” said Sam, positioning himself next to Dean. He swapped out the maps, and was still for a moment, contemplating something he didn’t let Dean in on. He drank the last of the ginger potion.

“The hell, man?”

Sam didn’t answer. Two long minutes later, Sam staring at him unnervingly the whole time, taking him in like he was seeing him for the first time, he cleaned the knife and cut into his own arm.

Sam did the ritual all over again. This time it didn’t have the same pull on Dean and he watched in confusion as Sam spread his own blood across the map.

The flames erupted and shortly after there remained only a sole point of blood by Sam’s house.

“Told you,” Dean said.

“No, Dean,” Sam said, tone low. “That point doesn’t mark me. It’s you.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” asked Dean.

Sam snorted as if in amusement, his face looked anything but, and pointed out a speck of blood in California Dean had missed. “I think we’re brothers.” Pause. “How old are you?”

Unable to look away from Dad’s point, Dean said, “Twenty-Six.”

“I’m twenty-two.”

Dean started to catch on, but it didn’t make any sense.

Sam took this in surprising stride. “I’m adopted. My parents adopted me in Kansas, where we lived for a while. I was less than a year old. Does that add up?” 

It did. His mouth was dry. “No.”

“Dean…”

“You’re baby Sammy,” whispered Dean. “He told me you were _dead_. I thought you were _dead_. I cried for months over you.”

“Dean,” said Sam again, holding strong eye contact. Dean had trouble looking away.

“I thought you were dead.” A painful knot in his throat. Dean turned around, walked a few steps into the garden and blinked away his tears. He had been robbed of a little brother.

Little brother. The fact that they got sexual last night only caught up with him now. He should feel guilty, but the pain in his chest stemmed from a different emotion.

He turned back to Sam and found him sitting on the table, face in his hands. When Dean came to stand in front of him, he dropped them and looked up at Dean, pushed his shoulders back and brought his expression to careful neutrality. Dean wondered if Sam was going through the same thoughts as him.

Sam broke the silence first. “He left me without any records, just a note stating my name and that my family had died,” his voice was calm, empty. “I remember my parents later explaining to me that there had been a fire in the neighborhood, and that some people in the orphanage thought I might have come from there. They never knew for sure.”

“I carried you out of the house,” said Dean quietly. If he spoke any louder he would—he didn’t know what he would do. Cry, scream, maybe he was quiet because speaking louder would scare Sam away. That was the last thing he wanted. To lose him when he’d just gotten him back.

“You saved me from the fire?”

“I did…” Dean’s heartbeat was quick and his fingers tingled, yearning to reach out to Sam.

“I suppose you don’t owe me a life debt anymore then,” said Sam and chuckled humourlessly. Dean cracked half a smile. “Why do you think he did that? I don’t even know his _name_.”

“John. John Winchester. My—Mom’s name is Mary. And… I don’t know. I think a child on the road wouldn’t have been the best idea.”

“ _You_ were a child.”

“Yeah.” Not really.

Sam snorted and watched him with his huge eyes, acting nothing like the powerful witch from before. He looked lost. So Dean reached out, finally, and cradled his face. Trying to find his little brother in the features, finding hints of Dad—though maybe that was his imagination—and studying his eyes. Their color was different in the dark, and every time he had seen them they had appeared differently. Green and blue and gold. Nothing like his own, or Dad’s. This was all Sammy’s.

Sam held still for him, slack muscles and parted lips.

Dean wanted to kiss him.

He drew away. Sam broke their eye contact, glancing at his shoes, then he stood—those two inches taller than Dean—and said, with a new kind of determination, “I’m coming with you.”

Dean blinked at him. “Coming where?”

“To find y—to find John. Our dad.” Hearing those words from Sam’s mouth—a quick zing of something new stirred inside him. He had a brother. The knot in his throat grew painfully sharp. “I need answers.”

“Okay,” said Dean.

“Okay?”

He wasn’t going to leave Sam like that, he had just _found_ him. But he had to find Dad too and—“Yes, okay. I want answers too.”

“I want to get to know you,” said Sam.

Dean gave a small smile. “You already know me,” he joked.

“I want to _get to know you_.”

Dean swallowed. “Me too.”

On a whim, he pulled Sam against him, crushing him in a hug, both arms around his shoulders. Sam squeezed his face against Dean’s neck, gripping his shirt.

“What about your life here?” Dean whispered into Sam’s hair.

“I’m going to miss the ravens. They’ll remember me, of course, but—I’ll be back.”

Yeah. Dean wouldn’t mind returning here.

He tightened the embrace.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Leave your thoughts and come check out my [tumblr](http://twobrothersfuckingeachother.tumblr.com) if you want
> 
> edit: So this is now part of a series


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